Matt opened his eyes, usually conker brown and focused, now red and blurry. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He smiled at me. On the rare occasions that Matt drank too much, he was a nice drunk – affectionate and sleepy, no trouble.
‘So what’s happened?’ I asked.
He looked over at the dictionary. ‘Was looking up words.’
‘Words?’
He reached over, picked up the book and read from a page. ‘Redundant – no longer needed or useful, superfluous. Retirement – to recede or disappear into seclusion. I am sorry, Caitlin.’
Ah. So that was it. ‘Seriously?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Seriously as in not funny.’
With that, he lay back, closed his eyes and nodded off again. I noticed that his left sock had a hole in it and his big toe was poking through. He was usually so perfectly turned out in his spotless shirts and well-cut suits for work, and this vulnerability endeared him to me.
I need a drink too, I thought.
I went back into the kitchen and found a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge as the implications hit me. I opened the French doors and went to sit on the bench in the sunshine on the decking outside. I got out my mobile and called Lorna.
‘Matt’s been made redundant.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Will he get a pay-off?’
‘Maybe but it won’t be much. He was there as a freelancer though he’d been with the same company for a long time. He’s still out for the count so I don’t know the details yet.’
‘Is it definite?’
‘Think so. Hell, Lorna, how are we going to get by? We don’t have savings, or any cushion money, in fact.’
‘Don’t panic,’ said Lorna. ‘At least you have your job at the surgery.’
‘Only until Margaret Wilson is back from her maternity leave.’
‘What about your writing?’
I laughed. Despite time spent at my laptop, my ideas were sparse. ‘Nothing happening at the moment.’
‘You need to get an agent.’
‘I need to get a good idea first, and getting an agent is as difficult as getting a publisher.’
‘Something will come.’
‘Maybe. Hope so.’
‘In the meantime, at least you’re earning something.’
‘I guess.’ My job didn’t pay a lot. Matt and I had an agreement. I paid for the fun stuff. I earned enough to keep us in wine, the occasional meal out, and holidays once a year – and those to Devon or Cornwall, nowhere too expensive. Matt paid for the boring stuff – gas, mortgage, electric, phone, car, insurance. In short, he was the breadwinner.
‘He could always look for another job,’ said Lorna.
‘Maybe, but will he be able to get one at his age? It may be time to sell the house.’ It had always been on the cards that we might have to sell up one day, in order to release money for our non-existent pension pot because, like so many of my generation, we didn’t think we’d get old. ‘Matt didn’t just say redundant. He used the word retirement too.’
‘Big change for you both,’ said Lorna.
‘Wasn’t part of the plan just yet.’
‘Never is. Sometimes we chart the course of our lives internally with our choices, decisions and plans for the future, and think we’re in control. Sometimes change comes from unforeseen and unexpected external forces, and we realize that we’re not in control at all. Sounds like today is one of those days and you have no choice but to go with it.’
I got the feeling she was talking about Alistair’s short illness, as much as what had happened to Matt. Her husband had died last year of pancreatic cancer, eight weeks after he got the diagnosis. ‘So what should I do?’
‘Stay calm. Have a glass of wine. See how things unfold. Not all change is bad.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Call if you need to.’
‘Will do.’
After she’d hung up, I began to think how this change might affect us. Losing his job meant Matt would probably be at home all day. How would that be?
We had our lives worked out perfectly to avoid each other, without actually admitting that was what we were doing. When he got in from work late in the evening, I gave him space and let him retreat into his cave (as advised in the book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus). If I wasn’t out at one of my classes, I’d have a brief chat when he got home, and then I usually went up to bed to read. He came up around twelve when I was asleep and, if I wasn’t, I pretended to be. He got up early and was gone by the time I rose in the morning, and so it went on until the weekend. I hardly knew what went on his head any more, nor he in mine, but this never troubled us because we were both so busy living our separate lives that we had never had to confront the fact we’d grown apart.
Will we need to sell the house if he can’t find other work? I asked myself. Probably. I liked our home. It was a five-bedroom semi-detached Edwardian in a quiet tree-lined street in Bath, with a south-facing, level garden at the back – hard to find because so much of the city is built on hills, so most gardens are sloped or terraced. We’d moved here over fifteen years ago after a weekend trip when we’d fallen in love with the area with its Georgian architecture, crescents and houses built with honey-coloured stone. We could walk into town in five minutes and be in the countryside in ten. I looked around at the wooden floors, which were scuffed and in need of sanding, and the magnolia walls, which I noted were overdue a lick of paint. I didn’t mind. It had a cosy, lived-in feel from when the boys were teenagers with a hundred interests and hobbies, hence shelves and cupboards in every room that were full of books, DVDs, games and sports equipment. I’d even found a snorkel and pair of flippers the other day, under the bed in Jed’s old room.
The house was too big for just the two of us now, but I loved having the extra space, even though the whole place needed a clear-out to really take advantage of it.
Although Jed had moved out when he went to university, he had still come back from time to time, and had only gone properly when he’d moved to Thailand over a year ago. I know other mothers who mourned when their kids finally left home, empty-nesters, and I did go through some of that when they disappeared. For a while the house seemed so empty and silent, but in time I found it liberating. I’d paid my dues; had the house full of noisy boys, sleepovers, cooking endless meals, laundry, ironing, never being able to get near the TV remote, shelling out money for all sorts, not being able to sleep until I knew they were home, safe and in their beds. Of course I missed them, but not their mess and the worry when they were out late. Now I had peace and quiet, two rooms to spare for storage, food in the fridge that didn’t get eaten within twenty-four hours of being bought, time for my friends, and beds down the corridor to go to if Matt was snoring. I went to my part-time job and worked on book ideas with no pressure. It hadn’t mattered that I wasn’t a high earner. Hadn’t mattered. It would now.
A text came through from Debs. Everything OK?
I texted back. Matt’s lost his job. Details l8r when I get them.
Debs texted back. Take Star of Bethlehem flower remedy for shock, both of you. Want me to send some over?
She had an alternative cure for all ills and, over the years, I’d been given all sorts of concoctions to apply or ingest, though I quite liked the flower remedies, probably because they came in brandy.
She texted again a moment later. We’ll sort it this evening.
Will have to take a rain check. Want to see how Matt is.
We had a supper night when we could all make it. It was our private counselling session. Debs had suggested it last year as an excuse to get together, and she’d made up rules. We took turns in choosing where to go. It had to be somewhere we hadn’t been before. We put our troubles on the table and offered each other support and advice. It had been a life-saver, an evening to laugh, cry, try out a new place and air any problems. I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford supper nights for a while, I thought as I
decided to opt for Lorna’s advice, poured myself a second glass of wine and wrote a list of things to do.
Check out local house values on Rightmove.
Check out properties for sale in areas we could afford.
Stop worrying. It’s only stuff.
Cue the mini princess from Frozen singing ‘Let It Go, Let It Go’ in my head. Cue visualization of smashing her in the face with a frying pan.
3
Cait
Chin hairs plucked: 1
Nose hairs trimmed: 3
Items lost: my space
3 a.m. Bedroom. Yoda, our cat, decided he needed to declare his undying love. He’s a honey-coloured Persian chinchilla, named because he resembles Yoda from the Star Wars movie, only furrier. He jumped on the bed, onto my chest and began kneading and purring loudly. I got out of bed and put him outside the door.
3.05 a.m. Banshee howling loud enough to wake the dead. Desperate scratching at the door. Not a spirit from beyond the grave, it was Yoda again. Got up and let him back in.
3.10 a.m. After more chest-kneading, Yoda wrapped himself around my head and fell asleep, but my mind was wide awake, thinking about our future. It had been almost ten days since Matt lost his job. What if we ran out of money? Should we sell the house? Stay? Should Matt try and find another job? What? Anything? Should I try to go back into teaching? It paid better than the temporary part-time jobs I’d been doing for the last five years.
Dad. He’s lonely. Care home? Not necessary. He doesn’t need care, just company. Maybe he’d consider sheltered accommodation for that. He wouldn’t be alone there. Maybe he’d like Yoda.
4.07 a.m. Matt was snoring away.
I gave him a nudge and he obediently turned over, and after five minutes resumed his snoring.
Nudged him again.
Finally started drifting off to sleep when Matt did one of his spectacular snort-snores. Very loud. Almost leapt out of my skin. Nudged him and he turned over and continued snoring softly.
Debated whether to thump him in the kidneys, suffocate him with a pillow or nudge him again. Grrr.
Got up and climbed into the bed in the spare room. Peace at last, but sleep still escaped me as it has done for the past year or so.
Finally dozed off. Zzzzz.
5 a.m. Yoda found me. He patted my cheek gently with his paw. I ignored him. More gentle patting, which I ignored.
5.05 a.m. Yoda inserted a claw into my nostril and pulled. Ow! That hurt. Wide awake now. Where has he learnt to do that? Do cats come with a built-in manual of instructions on how to wake your owner? Advanced technique no. 3: locate hole in middle of human’s face. Flick out claw. Insert into hole and pull.
5.10 a.m. Got out of bed, went downstairs and fed Yoda, who was now purring like an old bus. Back to bed in spare room. Can hear Matt still sleeping and snoring in our bedroom. Grrr.
6 a.m. Finally drifted off. Zzz.
8 a.m. Matt came into the room and nudged me awake.
‘Cup of tea, Cait?’
I turned over and opened my eyes. ‘Uh. No. I’m fine, thanks. I’ll get one when I’m up.’
He put a mug on the bedside cabinet. ‘Made you one anyway.’
8.05 a.m. Drifting back off to sleep, just for another half-hour …
Matt came back into the room. ‘I’ve fed Yoda so you don’t need to.’
‘Mmm. Right. Thanks.’
‘Are you getting up?’
‘No. Yes. Didn’t sleep too well. You were snoring.’
‘Sorry. You should have nudged me.’
Kitchen. 9 a.m. ‘What shall we have for breakfast?’ asked Matt. He was still in his blue towelling dressing gown.
‘We? Uh. Oh. Right. I don’t usually have much in the week. I usually just grabbed something quick after you’d gone to work. A Nutribullet or something.’
‘Oh. What’s in that then?’
‘Kale, seeds, fruit.’
Matt pulled a face. ‘OK. I’ll fix my own.’
He seemed miffed.
10 a.m. Top floor. Study. Stared at screen which was blank apart from two words. New ideas.
Clicked on Facebook. Watched a clip of a panda with no eyes that is befriended by a puppy. Aw.
Must start work, but I see someone’s posted a clip of a baby elephant playing in the sea for the first time. Crucial viewing I’d say.
Stared out of the window at the fields at the back of the house. It’s misty out there.
Back to blank screen.
Matt, still in his dressing gown, popped his head round the door. ‘Cup of coffee, Caitlin?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Did I hear the phone go earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Dad.’
Matt came in and settled himself on the chair opposite my desk. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘He must have said something.’
‘Usual stuff. How my brother’s doing. How his dentist appointment went. He’s lonely, I think.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘Fine.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to work.’
Matt got up. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m interrupting you.’
He seemed miffed.
10.30 a.m. Sent email to my friend Lizzie, a retired literary agent in London, asking her to call.
Post arrived. I went downstairs to pick it up.
Into kitchen to open post. Matt was sitting on a stool at the island.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Post.’
He got up and hovered behind my shoulder. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?
‘Well yes, but it’s addressed to me.’
‘Since when has your mail been private?’
‘It’s not. Junk mail,’ I said as I opened the first envelope. ‘See, nothing important.’
Matt looked out of the French doors to the garden. He seemed miffed.
10.45 a.m. Matt appeared at the study door.
‘Anyone call for me? I thought I heard the phone go.’
‘Dad again. He forgot to tell me to listen to something on the radio.’
‘Oh. What was that?’
‘Some programme about children’s writers.’
‘Anything else in the mail?’
I picked it out of the bin and handed it to him. ‘Here. Only catalogues we don’t really want. You can take them if you like.’
He did.
He seemed miffed.
11 a.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, where are you?’ Matt called.
‘On the loo.’
I heard footsteps in the corridor. ‘Where do you keep the Sellotape?’
‘Desk drawer in my study, second one down.’
‘Righto.’
11.15 a.m. Hall. Matt appeared on the stairs, still in his dressing gown. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘I can see that. Where?’
‘Supermarket.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Car keys. Have you seen them?
‘No. What time will you be back?’
‘Not sure. I might go for coffee afterwards.’
‘Oh. Who with?’
‘Matt, when have you ever taken an interest in who I go for coffee with? And when are you going to get dressed?’
‘No need to be prickly.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m going for coffee with Carol from my yoga class.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘No. She’s new to the group.’
‘What time will you be back?’
‘About one.’
1 p.m. Home. Hall. ‘How was the supermarket?’ asked Matt. He’d dressed but not shaved.
‘Same as ever.’
‘Good. Good. So. What’s for lunch?’
‘Lunch? I …’
Matt sighed. ‘I get it. You just grab something quick. Don’t worry. I’ll fix myself something.
’
He seemed miffed.
2 p.m. Study. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Matt from the corridor.
‘Lizzie.’
‘Anything interesting to say?’
‘Not really. Just chatting over whether I’d got any new ideas. She promised she’d look over anything I write.’
‘And have you got new ideas?’
‘No. That’s what I’m trying to do now, so that Lizzie and I have something to discuss next time I see her.’
‘Right. OK. I’ll let you get on.’
Back to new ideas, but first a quick look at Facebook. Oo. Someone had posted a new clip demonstrating The Art of Mongolian Flute Singing. Felt compelling need to watch all four minutes of it.
4 p.m. Study. Deleted all the rubbish I’d written after the words ‘New Ideas’.
Opened new page. Wrote ‘Options’.
Write brilliant, mind-blowing and original children’s book.
Sell our house, downsize, have some money in the bank.
It’s a no-brainer. Called two estate agents to come and value the house.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ Matt called up the stairs.
‘Sure, but I’ll make it. I need a break.’
I went down into the kitchen, where Matt had parked himself again, on the stool at the island, looking at his laptop. I put the kettle on. He got off the stool and came up behind me and reached into the bread bin.
I stepped back as he stepped forward.
‘Oops, sorry,’ we both said.
I found the teabags, then moved cups onto the island at the same time he opened the fridge door, which banged my knee. We stepped into each other again. ‘Oops, sorry.’
I reached into the bread bin and got out crackers.
‘Oh, what are you having?’ he asked.
‘Snack. Bit of cheese on a cracker.’
‘Make me one, will you?’
Dancing Over the Hill Page 2